


Putting on that red light

by oddishly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 13:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3175316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddishly/pseuds/oddishly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby gets an unexpected welcome into Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Putting on that red light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glovered](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glovered/gifts).



At first, Bobby thought he must have taken a wrong turning, and ended up in Narnia by mistake. Then he remembered that Narnia was even more unlikely final destination than all St Peter's many pearly gates, even if you allowed for the possibility of C.S. Lewis: Renegade Man of Letters (Bobby didn't), and that at no point between death and now could he remember making a decision about which fork to take towards eternity. 

There was, however, no mistaking the very tall lamp-post he was standing next to, nor the faint red glow it was emitting.

"Name?"

Bobby started. On the other side of the lamp-post sat a bored-looking demon, staring at a sheaf of papers on the desk in front of it. It was wearing the body of someone thin and very blonde, a bottle-green dress with a slit stretching up foot to far up the thigh, with a fake tiger-tooth pendant hanging down its chest.

"Robert Steven Singer. Bobby."

The demon dipped a feather in a cup of what Bobby presumed to be blood and added this to the topmost sheet of paper. "First address?" it continued. 

"Uh -- 19 Mothly Close, Pleasanton, Kansas."

"Your name is now Steven Mothly," the demon intoned at its nails. "If you wish you may use another name between the hours of 7am and 2pm and every Tuesday and Thursday night. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes. Shouldn't you be all -- " Bobby gestured vaguely, "fire and smoke and gore?"

The demon looked up. "You're a hunter?"

"Well -- " Bobby decided now wasn't the time to argue semantics. Once a hunter, always a hunter. That's what he'd told the boys. "Yeah."

"That's different, then," said the demon. It screwed up the paper it had just scrawled all over and tossed it over its shoulder. Then it dipped its finger in the same cup of blood it had just used for ink and pressed a fingerprint into the nearest available bit of desk, which swallowed the blood immediately. "The boss'll be right down."

"The boss?"

"Yes," said the demon. It propped its chin in its hand, everything on its face bar the black eyes betraying interest. "You might have met him before. His name is Crowley."

"Balls," said Bobby.

"Well, well, well," said a familiar voice. "Look what the cat dragged in."

Bobby groaned.

"Is that any way to greet your king?" asked Crowley. He walked to face Bobby and smiled at him. "I jest, of course. Not you, Maxwell." 

The demon hurled itself back to its chest in the snow.

"Hmm," said Crowley. He turned to Bobby. "How was your journey down?" he asked pleasantly. "Not too many other delinquents sharing the ride, I hope."

"What are _you_ doing here?" Bobby demanded.

"I'm in charge here, had you forgotten?"

"No," said Bobby, who had tried very hard to forget nonetheless. "I mean what are you doing _here_. Didn't get enough of gloating when I was alive?" The thought sends a wave of something painful and bitter through him.

Crowley narrowed his eyes. He waved a hand at their feet and Maxwell's ears tore off, shooting into the wood with some noisy screaming to accompany them. "You gloated," he told Bobby, and cut the demon's shrieks off with another wave. "I --" _moped_ , Bobby hoped was next, "conquered."

"How efficient," sneered Bobby. He nodded at the paperwork in the desk, and in doing so caught a glimpse of the assorted dead people lining up behind it. They could wait. So long as Crowley continued ripping their ears off. "What's that all about, then?"

Crowley smiled. "I'm glad you asked. Maxwell!"

The demon clambered to its feet. "Sir!"

"See that Mr Singer gets fitted for his dress at once. Make it red. _Very_ red."

"His _dress --_ " spluttered Bobby.

"And boots," continued Crowley. "Good ones, mind. Thigh-high fuck-mes, none of this ..." he eyed Maxwell's shoes, "kitten heel malarkey."

"Yes, sir," said Maxwell gloomily, and toed off the maroon attrocities on its feet.

"If you think -- "

"I do think," said Crowley. "Demons have needs too, you know. As you said, it's very efficient." He performed a twirly bow and paused somewhere right around Bobby's crotch. "If you get bored of servicing the riff-raff, you know how to find me."

"No I don't -- " Bobby began before realising what he was implying.

Crowley smirked and produced a business card as he stood all the way up. He patted it into the breast pocket of Bobby's -- silky bathrobe, Christ on a bike. 

"Now you do," Crowley said, and blew a kiss Bobby's way.


End file.
